


Worst of The Storm

by extradimensional



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Established Relationship, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Poisoning, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22828030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extradimensional/pseuds/extradimensional
Summary: “I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up.”That was the first greeting Cullen was met with from Alistair in two weeks. It really wasn’t the best kind for his blood pressure but the way it was said, being muttered before Alistair even dismounted his horse at the gates, made it all the worse.
Relationships: Alistair/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

“I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up.” 

That was the first greeting Cullen was met with from Alistair in two weeks. It really wasn’t the best kind for his blood pressure but the way it was said, being muttered before Alistair even dismounted his horse at the gates, made it all the worse.

Cullen’s first question was meant to be _‘how did you manage to return without anyone hearing you?’_ as the guards had nearly no warning of the Warden-Commander’s return, but instead his eyes fell upon the sorry state that was his lover and it quickly changed form to:“What happened? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” His eyes moved over Alistair’s body, trying to keep calm. They weren’t too far from the doors of Skyhold and prying eyes always misinterpreted what they saw. 

Alistair shook his head in response, but the execution of it wasn’t entirely convincing. He looked more like he was trying to shake something out of his head than confirm he was fine. 

Cullen placed a hand on Alistair’s shoulder in what effectively was meant to convey comfort, but the jerk back, as if it was revolting was the final straw. He had absolutely no idea what was happening, but it was clear that Alistair was not fine. Physically or mentally, it hardly mattered. Cullen had had his fair share of both to know they were terribly equal. 

“Alistair, I think it’s best we get you to the healers,” he said calmly.

“No!” Cullen could see his jaw grinding together painfully, as if holding in a scream.

“Just to have them look you over, nothing more.” 

Alistair continued shaking his head in protest as he slumped against Cullen’s weight. 

“They’ll know. The mages will be able to tell,” Alistair whined, it was obvious he was exhausted at the very least. The best outcome of this was that his mind was over tired and wrought. 

Gripping both of his shoulders, Cullen forced Alistair to look at him. “What will they be able to tell?” His voice was not one of a friend or a lover, but one of command. The very one he used when a soldier was out of order or was about to do something utterly dangerous. It usually worked and in this case, it seemed to shake Alistair out of his stupor enough to realize where he was. 

“I can’t tell you. You’ll hate me. You won’t want me anymore.” 

Maker, what had happened in that damn forest? It was only supposed to be a two week expedition. 

“I’ll never hate you, Alistair. But you’ll make me feel much better if you let me take you to the infirmary.” 

The sun was setting below the mountains, the light fading out. Golden hour. For whatever reason, whether out of guilt or sheer tiredness, Alistair gave his nod of consent. 

———————❖———————

He must have black out at some point on the walk there because Alistair suddenly realized he’s seated on a cot. 

_“Where was he heading?”_

_“The Bercillian forest. He was due back last night but I figured because of the storm…”_

_“...Possibly concussed…”_

_“Slight signs of internal bleeding but we won’t know until…”_

_“Cecilia will be back momentarily...quite the spirit healer….Unless you’d rather—”_

“Cullen?” Alistair croaked. Whatever conversation was going on around him halted and he could feel a well known hand squeezing his own. 

“I’m right here, love.” 

“My head really hurts.”

Cullen placed a kiss on his temple that felt scalding. It _was_ Cullen. Alistair knew that. Even if he couldn’t lift his eyes from the floor just yet. 

“I don’t doubt that. We’ll get you feeling better soon. The healers are just running a few tests.” 

“Tests?” Why did his own voice not sound like his voice? Why did it sound so grovel-y? It wasn’t his anymore. 

Suddenly a face came into his eye line and it wore a sad smile. Cullen must have squatted down. Those hands moved to Alistair’s shoulders and it took a moment for him to realize Cullen was holding him still. Restraining him, but not in a fun way. 

All the voices started talking again and Alistair felt a flood of magic zing through his blood.

“That’s good, Alistair. Just focus on my voice. You’re alright.” 

He did. It was easier to do what they told him to. It helped his head ache less. The pulsing of mana stopped and started up again. He tried, but he couldn’t remember why he was so adamant about this not happening in the first place. 

———————❖———————

“Lyrium?” 

Cullen was aware that his question sounded more like a demand, but the mage’s answer to what was in Alistair’s system was far from what he was expecting. His fingers were still braced on said man’s shoulders, though it looked unlikely that Alistair would be going anywhere. 

He bit back the part of him that wanted to get Dorian as a second opinion. 

“Aye, Commander. Lyrium mixed with something else. Remnants of deathroot, perhaps.” 

Cullen ran a hand down his face. “Maker give me strength,” he muttered. “That would mean he didn’t willingly take it, I assume?” 

“No,” Alistair snapped out of it enough to defend himself. “No, they made me take it. I didn’t want it at all. I tried to spit it out, I really really tried. Cullen, you have to believe me!”

Alistair hadn’t suddenly shifted morals completely out of thin air, at least. 

“Shh, Alistair. I know you didn’t. I know.” He gently guided Alistair so he was laying down. Cullen had so many questions racking his brain but to demand them of Alistair seemed cruel. 

“Has he taken it before?” the healer asked. 

“No, he hasn’t.” Cullen could at least say that with confidence. That seemed to put the healer at ease, rightfully so. It meant that this was likely a one off--Alistair wouldn’t get addicted from one hit of it and if anything it was likely the deathroot affecting his mind so vigorously. 

Cullen was never so happy to hear about deathroot. 

———————❖———————

He didn’t fall asleep, but his mind was too sluggish to be very aware. Time moved in a different direction, everything looked black and white with bits of grey. It was like there was static in his head that he couldn’t get out.

Sometimes it felt like someone was talking to him but most of the time the voices were above. In the back of his mind, which he could only graze upon every few minutes, Alistair knew that it was the healers and Cullen talking. Maybe someone else if the rest of the Inquisition found out. Everyone once in a while, someone would card their fingers through his hair. 

_“Sedation might be the...”_

_“Why? He’s not exactly throwing a fit.”_

_“Best to…needs sleep...flush his syst…”_

“Alistair, darling?” 

“Hm?” He tried to focus his eyes but even with his full attention things were still blurry. But Cullen still looked nice all blurry.

“Can you drink this for me?” 

Alistair could tell, even as messed up as he was, that Cullen wasn’t pleased. The issue with ‘Commander Rutherford’ was that he wasn’t stupid and that fact, funnily enough, annoyed a lot of people. Cullen was also his own test dummy nearly on the daily. When all this was put together, it meant that the Commander usually had an idea of what he was talking about, and generally did not boast about it unless whoever he was conversing with was utterly wrong or completely stupid. 

He sat up a little and allowed Cullen to help him drink whatever was in the small glass bottle. It wasn’t elfroot, as a soldier Alistair would know that taste of that stuff anywhere, but it still had a similar bitterness. He wasn’t sure what it was meant to do as he felt exactly the same once it was empty.

“Thank you,” Cullen smiled thinly. 

“ _That’s a good lad._ ” 

As if electrocuted, Alistair whipped his head around. He knew that voice. He _knew_ it. Duncan was here. Duncan was dead. Very dead. Years dead. 

He was about to ask Cullen if he had heard it too when a gush of utter exhaustion hit him square in the chest. Ah, _that’s_ what the potion was. Not healing, not sedation, but a sleeping drought. A really really effective one. And in all honesty, why would he fight it? He was tired and had planned on sleeping a whole day anyway. Whether it was his bed or a cot in the infirmary hardly mattered. Later it would, when he had the energy to care, but now he was content.

He felt someone pull a blanket up to his chin right as he fell off. 


	2. Chapter 2

“You think someone poisoned him?” the Inquisitor asked as Cullen pushed his food around. It was wasteful and he was trying to eat, but his stomach was in knots. 

“He said someone forced him to take the lyrium.” 

“Yeah, but couldn’t that be… I don’t know, someone who is incredibly stupid but trying to be helpful? If someone was hurt or something and you knew they were a templar, wouldn’t you try giving them lyrium?” Bull suggested from his own seat by the window. 

They were dining in the Inquisitor's private chambers as she wanted an update and Cullen was already getting a migraine. He felt terrible for leaving Alistair, even if the healer had promised that he wouldn’t wake up for at least eight hours. Even if Alistair would kill Cullen if he neglected his basic human needs.

“The deathroot bit is what’s throwing me off. Obviously whoever did the poisoning did a real shit job of it. Couldn’t have been a rogue or mage. Honestly, Pavus is probably your guy for this. He knows all the witchy shit _and_ grew up in a place where everyone is constantly trying to kill each other.” 

“He’s still coming back from Tevenier tonight?” the Commander asked.

“Yup,” Bull smiled. Cullen felt bad for any of the patrons at Herald’s Rest tonight. The roof would likely be shaking. 

“Alright. I’ll call on him after your— _reunion_."

———————❖———————

Alistair woke in a different room to different voices. Sleep curdled every ounce of his being and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get it out. He was just about to ask for some water when he noticed who the voices were coming from.

A man, not old, maybe 40, with long blond hair. He paced the floor while thumbing the scabbard on his sword. It took Alistair quite a while to figure out where he knew him from. He had seen that face before but more in paintings than in the flesh.

“Father?” 

Light blue eyes dropped onto the bed and a smile grew on Maric’s face. A genuine smile. 

“Alistair! I feared you’d be sleeping forever. Duncan certainly thought so.” 

“...Duncan? But Duncan is dead, just like you. You’ve been—everyone’s dead.” Was _he_ dead? Did he die in his sleep last night? Maker help him, Cullen would melt down. 

It was as if Maric hadn’t heard him or decided to blatantly ignore that little fact as he continued on. “I suppose we’ll start the hunt late, huh? You need to dress, Ducan is off sharpening his daggers for the 5th time this week. But it’s just the three of us, so I’m not particularly in any rush. As long as we’re back before your brother returns. He’ll be cross if he misses you again.”

Alistair tilted his head, looking the man over. He had never noticed it before, but they really did look alike, didn’t they? Alistair wondered if his hair would lighten as he got older. It would be nice if there was someone he could ask, but as most people say Maric as a saint and not a real person, their answers would be skewed. 

Alistair closed his eyes and counted to ten. He wanted to answer, he wanted to agree and go hunting and have a family that loved him, have a brother would actually _missed him,_ or even knew he existed enough to be missed. He wanted to know what color Maric’s hair was at Alistair’s age, he wanted to know where he got brown eyes from and if Duncan could really go on a hunt with just a pair of daggers. He wanted it, Maker did he want it so ba—

“They’re not real, you’re not seeing ghosts, and you’re not dying.” Alistair opened his eyes again to Cole sitting in the chair next to the bed. “You’re not. I’d know. I’m good at knowing things.” 

Cole was very good at knowing things. It was true. 

Alistair gained the courage to look at the front of his bed. Maric was gone, no trace of him to be seen. “Is it a desire demon then? I don’t understand.” Maker, he sounded terrible. Grating was the best way to describe it: grating and weak. 

Cole shook his head, his floppy hat going with it. “Scrambled pieces fill the voids of memory, sleep makes dreams fit in between the cracks. You’re scared, but being scared is okay. If you were dying, I wouldn’t let you do it alone. It gets...cold alone.” 

“Ahh. Thank you, Cole.” 

Cole stood then and headed for the door. Alistair wondered what made him decide to use the door sometimes and magic the other. “Oh. Don’t drink tea later. You’ll burn your mouth. Sorry.” 

With that, Cole quietly closed the door behind him. 

———————❖———————

Alistair dozed off a little more after that. He was surprisingly left in peace for an unknown amount of time before the door opened again to reveal Cullen, now in his civvies with a tray of food.

“Well, look who is awake after about nearly 15 hours. How are you feeling?” 

“Like utter shit,” Alistair groaned, watching Cullen place the tray down on the bedside table. There was tea. He was not going to drink it for at least a half hour. 

“You want to share how you got deathroot in your system or would you rather eat first?” 

He’d rather go back to sleep and never discuss this again, but that wasn’t an option now was it? “Eat. And please don’t go too hard on me. My head still feels extremely fuzzy.” 

“Dorian stopped by last night, he said that deathroot takes an idiotic amount of time to get out of your blood stream if you don’t properly poison someone with it. It might actually get worse again. That being said, it _is_ improving. The toxicity levels are finally going down and yesterday should have been the peak of it.” Cullen said this all with an air of casualness as he poured himself a cup of tea and sipped it. With no problem. 

Arsehole. 

“Can it ‘get worse again’ in our room? I just thought I saw the ghost of my father so I’ve rather had it with this particular place.”

Cullen raised a brow. With how properly he held his tea, he looked like a prince. “King Maric. Wow, that is certainly a spectre to see if you’re going to see one.”

Alistair gave no response, grabbing a biscuit from the tray and gnawing on with his front teeth. He was so hungry that he felt nauseous. 

“Chef made your favorite porridge. She even put extra honey on it for you.” 

Alistair could tell he was worried, even if he tried to hide it. The fact that he looked rested and well now was likely the doing of Leliana or maybe Dorian. With a sigh, the warden put down the biscuit and accepted the bowl, relieved to find his shaky hands usable. There was quite a lot of honey in it and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t delicious. Cullen looked relieved when he saw Alistair eating, which made Alistair feel terrible.

“I’ll see what I can do about having you moved to your rooms.” 

“Not yours?” 

Cullen snorted. “Do you really think you’re up to climbing a ladder?”

Alistair responded by not responding. His mouth was too full of porridge anyway. He could tell that Cullen was dying to pounce on him with questions, but Alistair wasn’t sure he could give a solid account of the answers. Yet, his commander was raised with impeccable manners, so of course he’d wait. Or give the illusion of waiting. 

“I fell off my horse,” Alistair stated as he stirred his food. 

“How?” 

“She got spooked and threw me off. But Maribelle isn’t the kind of animal just to do that, so I took it as a warning that something was in the woods. Unfortunately, when I fell it was _hard_. I managed to brace myself to protect my neck, but the rest of my body wasn’t as lucky.” 

"Maker, it’s a miracle you didn’t snap your back.” 

“There was a solid few minutes that I thought I did. I kept going in and out of consciousness. Slipping. When I finally could shake myself out of my stupor I wasn’t outside anymore. I was in a tiny cabin on the floor. They must have dragged me there…” Alistair trailed off. 

“‘They’ being?” 

Alistair pursed his lips, hesitation gnawing at him but there was no time to spin a tale and he was doubtful he could come up with one Cullen would believe anyway. “Three mages. Young, maybe their twenties if that. They might have been blood mages but from their lack of skill I’m not sure that’s possible. They somehow had lyrium and I think they thought I was a templar and would want to drink it.” 

Cullen leaned forward, folding his hands together. “Maker’s breath, Bull was right. They were trying to help you.”

“Oh, no. They totally were not trying to help me at all. It’s just much more convenient if I poisoned myself than if one of them had to get their hands dirty. When it was clear that I wouldn’t go near it, even thanked them for the offer but declined, one of them head locked me and poured it down my throat. I could taste the deathroot as soon as it touched my lips but by the time I got my bearings back enough to break out, I had no choice but to swallow it. Had I not fallen, they would have had no chance to get me.” 

“But why kill you? Why not leave you for dead on the road where you were? It makes little sense.” 

Alistair snorted. “That’s why I was thinking they were attempting blood magic. I’d need to be alive for that and enough deathroot can keep you right on the cusp of life and death, plus they kept my horse. Really, that was the only smart thing they did. Maribelle would have come back and alerted everyone. Would it have been too late? Probably, but not too late to kill them. But by their terrible herbalism skills and lack of knowledge about what lyrium _actually_ does, I’d say they’ve somehow managed to escape the Circles this whole time.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Twelve year olds would know the correct dosage of deathroot and anyone in a Circle for a day knows what lyrium does. You do know you’ll need to tell me the location so I can take care of it, correct?” 

The way Cullen asked was so gentle that Alistair wondered how bad he really looked, as if asking him even something remotely violent would end up in tears or a melt down. 

“I know. Just...try to not have whoever you send kill them.” 

Cullen ran his thumb over Alistair’s cheek bone. “They’ll be no violence unless they are violent first. I’m simply grateful for their stupidity.” He leaned into that touch, wanting to fall asleep against it, wanting to not exist for a while in Cullen’s arms. “You look tired again. Should I leave you to sleep, love?” 

Alistair shook his head. “I want to lay down with you while you do paperwork and listen to you complain about how no one knows proper grammar.” 

“I really don’t think you’ll manage to stay awake that long. I’m amazed you could even hold a five minute conversation and actually eat something.”

“Porridge really motivates me to do amazing things. So do you.” 


End file.
